


Floodgates

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom John, First Time, Frottage, John is filthy, John tops from the bottom, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Porn, Porny porn porn, Post HLV, Post S3, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock wants it, Top Sherlock, because he's a stupid baby, bit of Violence, he just has no idea what's going on, john is an angry man, john wants to do so much, sherlock is stupid, they are both messes, trust me he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:30:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can’t be bothered to worry about it when Sherlock’s head pushes under his chin.  </p><p>“Is this alright?”  He asks quietly, voice softer than John’s ever heard it.</p><p>“Mmmmhmmm,” John strokes his fringe back from his forehead, chuckles and pulls gently when his fingers get caught in tangled, drying curls.</p><p>“Are you still angry?”</p><p>“Yes.  I’m going to be angry for a long time, Sherlock.  About a lot of things.”</p><p>“Will this mean we’re not friends anymore?”</p><p>“No, Sherlock,” John runs one finger around the shell of Sherlock’s ear.  Sherlock shivers against him.  “We’ll talk in the morning.  Sleep.  But now that no matter what, I will always, ALWAYS be your friend.  We’ll figure it out.  We always do, love.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, credit where credit is due: while the stories are quite different, I got the idea of John trying to beat the crap out of Sherlock then them totally doing it from by [Lessons in Astronomy](http://archiveofourown.org/series/79375), by the incomparable [CaitlinFairchild](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/pseuds/CaitlinFairchild).

John is angry. Angrier than he’s been in a long time, perhaps the angriest he’s been since that night in the warehouse, when “Mary” was hauled away and he just needed to get OUT.

He was scared too. More afraid than he’d been since that terrible ambulance ride, when the paramedics were pulling gauze pad after gauze pad soaked with Sherlock’s blood off his chest and the monitor showed his vitals rapidly crashing. Since he’d stood outside the operating theater, watching his world crash—AGAIN—as the monitor flatlined and for a few terrible minutes, he’d believed he’d lost Sherlock a second time.

But now back at Baker Street, with Sherlock alive and color slowly coming back to his face, the fear has dissipated to be replaced by pure RAGE. John actually thinks the outlines of his vision are tinged red. He can feel his pulse pounding in his neck.

_John sways a bit as he pulls himself to his feet. The force of Sherlock tackling their chase had knocked him out of the fountain, to the hard marble floor of the hall. Pain sears through his neck as he turns his head—the knife must have nicked him as it was pulled away—and his vision pops a few times as he blinks, looking around for Sher—_

_John doesn’t even realize he makes a conscious decision to move when he sees the man dressed in black cotton and a vest bent over in the pool over a mass of ticked wool, holding it down in the water. The next few moments are a blur; a criminal unconscious on the marble, blood trickling from his temple, and John hauling Sherlock’s limp body out of the cold water._

_“No no no no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO” repeats on an ongoing feedback loop in John’s brain as he gets Sherlock to the floor, flips him on his back. His eyes are closed, his face ashen gray, bluish around his lips. “Sherlock? SHERLOCK?!”_

_Instinct kicks in, the instinct to save, to try and hang on to the most precious thing in his life, and John rips open Sherlock’s shirt, then tilts his head back to open his airway. John is lining up to press when Sherlock, miraculous Sherlock, heaves a massive cough and sputters, dirty water bubbling out of his open mouth._

_John keeps one hand on Sherlock’s chest and the other behind his neck as he coughs and sputters, then rolls on his side and vomits. By the time Greg arrives in the hall, John is rubbing Sherlock’s back in soothing circles as he lies in a fetal position, coughing the lingering fluid out of his airway._

John was scared. Now, two hours, a brief neuro assessment, a fight with paramedics about John actually being a doctor and knowing what to look for, and a silent cab ride—save the occasional cough—later, they’re back in Baker Street and John is LIVID.

John is the muscle of the team. John does the shooting, does the fighting. Sherlock is the brain. Yes, he’d been in a tough spot, but it’s not like he’s never had a knife held to his throat before and Sherlock had no business physically confronting a trained assassin who outweighed him by three stone.

He glares at Sherlock, breathing hard, where he deposited him in his chair in the kitchen. After dragging him up the stairs by the waist, wet and cold and still coughing, of course. Sherlock’s shoulders are slumped, his hands in his wet, tangled curls as he leans over the table. John may have a stroke.

“WHAT the FUCK, where you thinking?”

Sherlock merely looks up, pulls his hands from his hair.

“Answer me, you fucking imbecile!” John stalks into the kitchen, hauls Sherlock up by his arm. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?”

“Jo—” The crack of John’s fist against a sharp cheekbone cuts him off. Sherlock gasps and stumbles back, raising a hand to his face. John feels a hint of remorse but it’s as if he’s watching from afar, watching his body finally crack and do what his brain has wanted to do for almost two goddamn years.

“How many times are you going to do this?” John grabs the front of Sherlock’s ruined shirt, shoves him hard. Sherlock stumbles back a few steps, tripping over his the stool. He grabs the edge of the table to steady himself as John lunges again, both hands grabbing his open shirt. “How many times, Sherlock?! How many times are you going to die, almost die, because you’re a fucking idiot? How many times am I going to have to WATCH?”

“John!” Sherlock grabs onto John’s wrists, holds, but he doesn’t fight back, and for some reason that only enrages John further.

“You had no business, NONE!” John shoves hard, again, and Sherlock’s back slams hard into the front of the refrigerator. The glass bowls stacked on top rattle. He tries to pull Sherlock’s arms apart, to pin him back into the fridge. “Now answer me! WHAT THE FUCK were you thinking?!?!”

“John!” Sherlock struggles against him, not to fight, but to move, but John is too fast and releases one wrist to grab Sherlock’s hair. He yanks hard, and Sherlock cries out.

“Look at me,” John growls, breathing hard through his mouth. He pushes hard, slams Sherlock’s left wrist into the fridge. “Do you have any idea, any, how badly you fucked up? How that could have ended?”

Sherlock whimpers—actually whimpers—as John twists his hand in his hair. A welt is appearing on his cheek, red and purple and gray against white skin.   The hazy memory of an expensive home in Belgravia, a mark on Sherlock’s cheek, floats in John’s mind. _Somebody loves you._

“John…”

“What?” John hisses, and presses his wrist harder against the fridge door.

“What was I supposed to do?” Sherlock has stopped pushing back, and his body starts to sag.

“Let me handle it!” John pulls Sherlock’s arm back slightly, then slams it back and twists it slightly. Sherlock hisses in pain.

“He would have killed you!”

“He almost killed you, you fucking moron!”

John feels a change in Sherlock’s stance, feels his muscles tightening and then they contract, and John is shoved back a few paces. The bandaged knife cut on his neck smarts. Sherlock is thin and gangly, but he’s strong, stronger than he looks.

“He would have killed you! And then everything I--” Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he stops, cheeks coloring. He looks guilty, as if he’s been caught red-handed. Sherlock never looks guilty. It would be funny any other time.

“What? What, you selfish prick?!”

“Better me than you!”

“Oh. Oh ho ho,” John chuckles, and his vision sparks as all his self-control shatters. He launches forward again, and a bowl from on top the fridge falls to the floor and shatters under the force of their bodies slamming against it. He’s not talking anymore, has no words to express the rage he’s feeling as they struggle, wrestling for control, all the hurt and anger and fear and PAIN that had built up in the three and a half years since that day at Bart’s exploding out of him with the force of a hydrogen bomb. Sherlock is no match for him, he never was, and in a few moments he’s got him pinned still against the fridge, one hand back in his hair and the other back around his wrist.

And just as he’s about to pull back, cock his arm to land another blow, John catches Sherlock’s eyes, resigned and sad and a bit scared, and the lasts words Sherlock spoke ring in his head.

_“And then everything…”_

John stops.

With a flash of insight so strong it’s like slamming into a brick wall, John finally understands. Five years of insight sears through his brain: from Sherlock’s panic that very first day when John offhandedly remarked on the state of the flat, up until the moment he put a bullet between Magnussen’s eyes in front of a team of MI6 agents. Small moments, large ones. Flinching when John corrected “friend” to “colleague.” Complaining to Molly about John going to Harry’s at Christmas. Everything with Moriarty, and his awkward, inappropriate reveal to John mid-proposal upon his return. John’s stag night, when alcohol softened his demeanor and John wished he could come back, that he could erase the past few years and they could carry on as they had. Sherlock’s speech at John’s wedding, fuck, that speech, when John for a brief moment wondered if he’d made the biggest mistake of his life.

The scars on his back, deep, marring lines and notches through delicate skin that John learned the truth about during the months he was back at Baker Street, helping Sherlock recover and avoiding his murderous then-wife.

 _Everything_.

John finally, _finally_ understands. He’s still angry, in fact, this revelation has probably only made him angrier, angry that they could both be so stupid as to waste as much time as they had. He swallows hard, watching and feeling Sherlock continue to struggle against his grip.

“Goddammit, Sherlock,” John squeezes harder, twists wet curls harder, and Sherlock tries to push back, jerks and pulls against John’s grip, expecting a blow, but John isn’t going to let go. He can’t now, and the last thing he sees as he pulls Sherlock’s head forward (by the hair, still, John couldn’t be gentle now if he tried) are his eyes going wide in shock.

Sherlock doesn’t react to John’s lips on his at first, not much, at least. John knows he’s being rough, still pinning him against the stainless steel in a vice hold, and all he does at first is stiffen but he doesn't try to pull his head back. But John doesn’t stop, he can’t stop, as the first sear of heat and white light bursts through his head down into his gut. A first kiss that is as bright and as violent as a supernova. A fraction of a second later he feels Sherlock crack with a whimper and his body sags, John’s grip the only thing holding him up against the fridge. He slumps into the cage of John’s embrace, lighting tightening and pursing back against John's. A rumble vibrates in his throat and ghosts out his nostrils against John's face.

That noise, low and desperate, sends electric shocks down John’s spine and his mouth opens against Sherlock’s, his tongue running along his full lower lip then pushing inside. Really Sherlock has no idea what he’s doing, it’s painfully obvious he’s never been kissed like this before, and he tastes awful, like stale, chlorinated water and bile and it should all be off-putting, but it’s not. Sherlock’s shock and clear lack of experience in the art of kissing, combined with the rage still coursing through John’s veins and the relief, the _sheer relief_ , of them being home and safe and finally realizing what’s been, in hindsight, plainly obvious, is arousing John more than anything ever has. His kisses grow more violent, fierce, lips and tongue and teeth, biting at Sherlock’s mouth and inhaling so hard he thinks he’s actually pulling the air from Sherlock’s lungs. John needs that. He needs Sherlock to breathe.

And Sherlock is letting him, allowing John to ravish his mouth, trying to keep up but failing in the most endearing way possible. John releases Sherlock’s hair and his head falls back to the fridge with a hard *clunk* while John chases his open mouth with his tongue. He whimpers again and John thinks briefly that that may soon become his favorite sound in the whole world. John releases Sherlock’s wrist as well, running his hands down his back and side, pinching skin and digging his fingers into the plump flesh of Sherlock’s behind.

John bites Sherlock's lip and he jerks. He pulls back to look, breaking the kiss with a wet *slurp*: Sherlock is beautiful. His hair falls over his face, eyes wide and dark with desire. His soft lips are already starting to swell from John's kisses. John can feel his breath on his face, hot and moist. John removes one hand from Sherlock's arse and gently runs his thumb across Sherlock's cheekbone, the one he didn't hit. "Sherlock...is this-"

He's cut off by Sherlock's lips and tongue as he surges forward, large hands-now free-gripping the back of his skull, before falling to John's shoulders, then down his back, long fingers squeezing his flank, hard. Their teeth *clack* together and Sherlock jumps and bucks in shock. His hips push forward, and John can feel the fullness in the front of his trousers against his belly. He growls into Sherlock’s mouth, then pulls off with wet slurp as his left hand comes back up to grab Sherlock’s hair. He tugs his head to the side and mouths across his face, his chin, biting and sucking down his long, pale neck. Sherlock jumps again as John’s mouth closes around his pulse point, teeth scraping. John sucks hard; he can picture the purple mark that will be bright and harsh the next morning as Sherlock moans, fingers pressing hard into John's back. He might be saying something, or maybe it's just nonsense, but John can't hear it over the buzzing in his ears. His fingers tighten in John's flesh to the point of pain as he grips him closer. John may have some bruises too.

Sherlock’s legs buckle as John nips across his Adam’s apple. John catches him, right hand still under his rear, and slides them both down to the kitchen floor as he continues to suck on Sherlock’s skin. He doesn’t taste very good, covered in the film of dirty public water, but his flesh is soft and warm and gives just so under John’s mouth. It’s almost frightening, the realization that Sherlock is just as warm and alive and human as anyone else, keening as John licks one down his neck and dips his tongue into his supraclavicular notch.

John’s cock is throbbing in his jeans, already uncomfortable from being wet, and he’s aching with need. He’s kneeling between Sherlock’s long legs on the floor as his mouth works Sherlock’s skin, and John swears he can feel the heat from Sherlock’s erection through his trousers. It’s surreal, and once again John sees himself from outside his body, watching from the other side of the room as he devours Sherlock. His shirt is already mostly open from when John ripped it earlier, but he pulls the rest of the buttons apart—the shirt is already ruined—as he mouths down, swiping his tongue over one pale pink nipple, digging his teeth into the hard flesh of his pectoral muscle. The sparse, soft hairs smattering Sherlock’s chest tickle John’s cheeks and chin, and he shivers. This is _real._

John hasn’t been with a man in a long time, not since he was in Afghanistan, when frustration and a need for physical comfort drove men to things they might not normally consider. John never took it particularly seriously; those experiences were pleasant enough, and happened relatively frequently, but it wasn’t anything he actively searched out once he returned home. Aside from Sherlock. He’d yearned for Sherlock from that first day, even if he didn’t immediately admit it. Doing this, with him right now, surpasses any sexual experience he’s ever had with anyone. It’s like an entire new world.

John kisses and bites over to the other nipple to give it a quick tug with his mouth, then starts moving downward again. He sudden dip of the scar on Sherlock’s smooth chest is jarring, enough that John lifts his head, unsure what that particular divot is. When he sees it and realizes what it is, he’s overwhelmed. John has never seen the small, shiny white mark so up close before, a shade lighter (if possible) than Sherlock’s already pale skin, with a ring of pink still around the edges. John sees sparks behind his eyes; his brain and chest both pound with rage, with sadness, and with a profound sense of loss, of grief, for what almost happened that night. So close.

John has to close his eyes, and his breath hisses through his teeth. His fingers shake where they grip Sherlock’s side. He hates it, hates that what mark and what it represents. It’s a symbol of everything they’ve gone through, all the wasted time and obstacles that attempted to get in their way and keep them apart. A reminder of Sherlock’s desertion and John’s subsequent search for a sense of purpose elsewhere, for something, _anything_ , to fill the void left in his heart and allow him to breathe again.

John HATES it.

He grits his teeth and tries to force down the wave of nausea that sweeps through him, eyes still closed, and breathes out hard through his nose, which is still pressed to Sherlock’s skin above the scar. Vaguely he feels one of Sherlock’s large hands lift and gently touch the back of his head. He just hears a whisper, “John, it's alright, I'm alright...” through the buzzing in his ears.

“Sherlock,” is all John replies. It’s all he can say, even though he wants to say more. John wants to weep, to apologize for allowing it to happen, and to admonish Sherlock for leaving in the first place. But he doesn’t. Instead, driven by a need to erase the mark, to satisfy the bone-deep wish to go back in time and fix every mistake they’ve ever made in the five years they’ve known each other, John simply opens his mouth and bites.

He bites hard, and hears Sherlock gasp as his skin gives way under John’s teeth. John’s mouth fills with the salty, sharp taste of blood and he swirls his tongue over the wounds, then pulls back slightly to look. Two rows of teeth marks, angry and red, lay over the shiny white mark. Overwritten. John’s mark now. His scar.

John’s cock throbs again in his jeans as the small wounds bead with blood and he swipes his tongue again, pulling the briny fluid into his mouth before working downward again. Sherlock shivers when he reaches the waist of his trousers, jerks when John’s fingers deftly undo the button and the zip and dive inside his damp pants.

John pulls Sherlock’s cock out, hot and heavy and positively gorgeous; it’s long and flushed pink and wet at the tip. John has never seen anything so delicious in his life and without preamble lowers his mouth, hears Sherlock practically scream as he sucks briefly on the glans. John takes a deep breath then slides down, pulling as much of Sherlock into his mouth as he can, sucking hard. This doesn’t taste particularly good either: chlorine and a hint of mildew from the water of the fountain, but Sherlock’s velvety skin is pulled tight and John could take his pulse with his tongue if he was in the right mind. It’s intoxicating.

Sherlock’s fingers scrabble in John’s hair as he pulls up and sucks on the head again, working his hand between them to his own zipper, fumbling to undo it and pull his own aching cock out. He’s been thinking about this for so long, and someday, hopefully in the next few hours, they’ll have the time to do this properly. John will worship Sherlock like he’s wanted to for so long, hold him down in a warm, soft bed and listened to him properly cry and beg. But now, his cock hot and heavy and aching in his hand, Sherlock’s cock leaking copiously in his mouth, he has to come.

John slides his tongue briefly under Sherlock’s retracted foreskin, then pulls off and rises up, licking into his open, panting mouth as he shuffles forward and lines them up. John’s hand fits around the both of them, just barely, and the sensation of hot, hard flesh sliding together is almost more than he can bear. The lingering saliva John left on Sherlock’s cock is deliciously slick between them. John strokes, first gently then harder as Sherlock’s hips buck up and he cries into his mouth. It’s wonderful, it’s more than John would ever be able to imagine, and John has to pull back to watch, to see Sherlock’s face as he rocks and strokes them both together.

Sherlock is staring blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy and unfocused. John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s and pants against his cheek, then suddenly Sherlock arches and stiffens, groaning low in his throat. His cock twitches against John’s as he spurts over his fist, it’s so beautiful, so arousing to see and feel this, that John feels his testicles pulls up and the clench deep in his pelvis before he can stop it. The orgasm takes him completely by surprise, and is so sudden and powerful it’s downright painful. His pelvis and abdomen cramp and he gushes fluid out in time with Sherlock, their bodies stiffening and shuddering together.

It’s fast, way too fast and much too long a time coming. Barely thirty seconds, John’s brain dimly registers as he slumps against Sherlock, breathing hard and his hand still gently stroking over their twitching, softening cocks. When he’s finally able to move again, John pushes back and looks down. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and glistening and he starts apologizing before John can get his bearings back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, John…”

“Shhhh…” John soothes, releasing their cocks and gently stroking Sherlock’s belly. It’s sticky and wet. John looks down and sees Sherlock’s stomach and chest spattered with more semen than he’d normally expect two men of their age to be capable of making. John very gently runs his fingers around the bite marks on Sherlock’s chest, where pearly white fluid is mingling with blood and the image is so satisfying, would be so arousing if John hadn’t just completely emptied his seminal vesicles, that it takes his breath away. His balls still ache from the force of his ejaculation. “Shhhh,” John murmurs again, and noses at Sherlock’s temple, kisses gently as he strokes through the mess on Sherlock’s abdomen.

Sherlock reaches up and wraps his hands around John’s back, tentatively, as if he isn’t sure he’s allowed. As if five years of repressed attraction and wanting and _love_ hadn’t just released itself on the linoleum of 221B Baker Street, leaning against a fridge that’s probably holding a cache of decomposing body parts.

John smiles into Sherlock’s hair. He’s never been a crier, but John find himself fighting tears over Sherlock for the umpteenth time in several months. These are different than previous ones, though. Despite everything, the terrible, terrifying events of the evening and the violent culmination of events, it’s rather perfect. How else would they come together? Two messes, two catastrophes colliding into a grand disaster.

John laughs, low and fond, against Sherlock’s head, and sniffs, blinking hard against the wetness in his eyes. “Come on,” he says softly, and moves to pull away. He feels a hint of bodily reluctance to move away from Sherlock but forces himself to do it. “Let’s get a shower.”

*

Ten minutes later, teeth brushed and ruined clothes in the garbage, John stands behind Sherlock under the hot water, gently soaping up his long, lean back. The scars stand out angrily against his skin, and John kisses one, then another, as he reaches around to clean Sherlock’s front. Sherlock’s belly is softer than he imagined like this. He gently washes the bite wounds below his sternum, lightly, soft swipes of his soapy fingers rather than the flannel, then then presses his face into Sherlock’s shoulder and hesitates a bit before sliding lower. Sherlock only sags back against his chest as John gently soaps up his genitals, caressing the soft skin of his scrotum and then pulling his arm back around to wash his perineum and up his gluteal cleft. Saliva floods John’s mouth as his fingers dance against a tight furl of muscle, but he pushes aside his more lascivious thoughts to focus on the pure, sweet intimacy of being able to wash Sherlock like this. Sherlock doesn’t protest or push him away so John strokes a bit more, tender rather than sexual, before finally tossing aside the flannel and reaching for Sherlock’s shampoo. He practically purrs as John works the shampoo into his hair, slumped against him for support.

John murmurs nonsense the entire time, shocked at himself and his desire to soothe. Even in his wildest fantasies he’d never really believed it could be this tender with Sherlock, so deeply intimate and yet simple and easy. It feels natural, the sweet words and shushing as he scrubs Sherlock clean, then releases him so he can soap himself up under the water. Sherlock stands still, watching as John washes himself, but he hasn’t said a thing since his apology on the kitchen floor.

When they’re finished, John pulls them out of the shower and gently dries Sherlock off, wrapping a towel around both their waists then leaning Sherlock against the counter. He grabs the small box of medical supplies and quickly re-bandages the cut on his neck, then starts cleaning Sherlock’s bite mark.

“Not too bad,” John murmurs as he swipes betadine over it. “Have to get it clean; oral flora is disgusting. There.” He presses a gauze pad down with tape. “It’ll probably scar, though.”

“Good,” is all Sherlock says.

Well, then. John feels a feral, primal ball of heat in his gut, ridiculously possessive and proud that Sherlock is glad his mark overlays the bullet hole from Mary.

John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him into his bedroom, rooting around in a drawer for pajama pants and a t-shirt. John learned his way around Sherlock’s dresser in the months after he was shot, when John needed to help him climb in and out of bed and dress. He pulls the soft worn shirt over Sherlock’s head, smoothing it down his chest, and remembers those days, when Sherlock actually needed him to do this. It was awful, John still too afraid Sherlock would crash during the night to sleep upstairs in his old room, but it was also the most comfortable John had felt in his skin since that day at St. Bart’s. Aside from the brief moments of panic during the night or when Sherlock would sway on his feet or gasp in pain, simply existing was easier for John than it had been in years.

When Sherlock’s pajama pants are pulled up, he sits him on the edge of the bed and rests two hands on his shoulders. Sherlock looks lovely, softer than he usually does as his hair dries in frizzy wave around his face. A shadow seems to have lifted from his eyes. John is drunk on him like this, and gently lifts a hand to card through his hair, still looking down at him. He doesn’t want to assume Sherlock wants him in his bed, but he is loath to leave of his own accord. A few moments of twisting damp curls in his fingers pass before Sherlock speaks, answering John’s unasked question.

“Stay.”

“I need pants.”

“Then go get some and come back.”

“Alright,” John leans forward and gently kisses Sherlock’s forehead, then goes out into the sitting room, where a basket of clean laundry was abandoned earlier that morning after Sherlock announced there was a case. He pulls out clean pants and cotton pajama bottoms, quickly pulling them on and returning to Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed where John left him, waiting, and smiles slightly when John shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room and pulls back the covers, guiding Sherlock under and joining on the other side of the bed. It’s odd, that Sherlock acquiesces so easily, that he immediately slides over to John when they’re both under the duvet.

John has been in Sherlock’s bed a few times, after he was shot and John didn’t even trust that sleeping in the sitting room was close enough in case Sherlock needed him. It’s different now, charged; the luxurious sheets feel softer against his skin, the expensive mattress sinks further under his weight.

Is John going to sleep here from now on?

He can’t be bothered to worry about it when Sherlock’s head pushes under his chin.

“Is this alright?” He asks quietly, voice softer than John’s ever heard it.

“Mmmmhmmm,” John strokes his fringe back from his forehead, chuckles and pulls gently when his fingers get caught in tangled, drying curls.

“Are you still angry?”

“Yes. I’m going to be angry for a long time, Sherlock. About a lot of things.”

“Will this mean we’re not friends anymore?”

“No, Sherlock,” John runs one finger around the shell of Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock shivers against him. “We’ll talk in the morning. Sleep. But now that no matter what, I will always, ALWAYS be your friend. We’ll figure it out. We always do, love.”

The endearment just slips out, easy and smooth, as if John has always been saying it. Sherlock seems to melt into his arms, bony and sharp but still remarkably soft and pliant. John can’t help but think his body fits against his as if it was designed to do so.   Before too long, Sherlock is snoring quietly, ridiculous, quiet little snorts that have always made John laugh when he heard them.

John doesn’t sleep for several hours. He can’t. Not in a bad way, he just can’t imagine being able to sleep after what just happened. He doesn’t want to, not with Sherlock lying against him with his arm around his waist. He wants to stay up forever and watch, watch this ridiculous creature slow down and stop, peaceful and curled still against him.

Curled against him. John’s eyes prickle again. Sherlock Holmes is curled against him, all elbows and knees pressed into John’s stockier frame, head under his chin and large hand lightly gripping his side.

For the first time in a long time, it feels easier to breath. There’s no catch, no ache in his chest. It’s maybe the first time in his life John has ever felt this way.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pulls back, sucks hard on Sherlock’s full lower lip. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, mouthing across his cheek, delighting in the tickle of his morning stubble. “Touch me however you want.”
> 
> Sherlock’s fingertips dip beneath the elastic, but stop short of his pants. “John, I’m not sure how…”
> 
> “It’s alright,” John licks the shell of his ear, then exhales. Sherlock shivers. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you everything. Would you like that?”
> 
> “Yes.”

John wakes briefly to something he’d never thought he would:  his nose buried in soft curls that smell of sweet lemon and basil, and something dark and warm and earthy.  John takes a deep breath (cigarette smoke and mint, bastard must have escaped for a smoke outside while John slept) and attempts to shift, but a lanky, surprisingly strong arm is wrapped tightly around his rib cage, and two bony, ice cold feet are pressing into his right calf.

Sherlock stirs slightly as John settles back into the mattress, snuffling and sighing against his neck, then sinking back into the covers and John’s embrace with a small grunt.

John smiles. Over the years they’ve known each other, John has never known that Sherlock could (or would) make such sounds: sighs and moans and yelps. The soft and calming way he had whispered John’s name when he was caught up in the bullet wound on his chest, bringing him back to earth. The sweet, plaintive way he asked if it was ok to curl up against John’s chest.

 _No, I knew,_ John thinks to himself, as he strokes a finger down one pale cheekbone, traces the straight line of his jaw. The day’s stubble takes John by surprise, just for a moment, but a heat flares in his stomach with it. It’s been a long time since he’s touched a masculine body, and certainly those bodies didn’t belong to Sherlock. John’s never felt anything like this. _I always knew it. Somewhere, I knew he’d come back, and we’d have this. I knew it from that first day._

John’s fingertip comes to rest lightly against Sherlock’s pulse point. He rubs lightly against the pale, delicate skin, feels the throb of Sherlock’s blood in his carotid. John can’t help it; he shudders hard, drawn back to that awful night for the second time in a few hours. The night when Sherlock’s pulse faltered, for real, and John stood frozen outside a cold, harshly light operating suite as the heart monitor screamed and went flat.

But Sherlock’s alive—somehow—and he’s here, pressed against John’s body and somehow, he’s found a way to give John another miracle. _One more miracle, Sherlock. For me._

John presses his lips hard against Sherlock’s forehead, teeth clenching as he swallows down five years of emotion that has suddenly—and violently—come to a head. He gut aches and his chest is tight but his heart soars as he feels Sherlock sigh and shift closer, in his sleep.

*

John wakes and opens his eyes to see light gray sunlight slanting across wallpaper that is decidedly not his. For all the time he’s known Sherlock, he’s never once known him to close his bedroom curtains. It takes John just a moment to realize what his too connecting thoughts mean, and he is far more surprised to find that he’s not surprised as he claws his way back to consciousness.   John blinks a few times, then looks down at the face a few centimeters from his own. He’s met with two large, pale green (and grey and blue and gold) ones, wide and apprehensive and so close he can make out every brown fleck.

They are such lovely eyes. John’s always thought so. But so close, like this, even with a bruise darkening under one...

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, leaning forward immediately to kiss those full, soft lips.

Sherlock doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t react either. He remains absolutely still, and when John pulls back, one hand weaving into sleep-dried, frizzy curls, he merely says, “John.”

John smiles softly and strokes his thumb over the red mark on Sherlock’s cheek. He flinches softly and John leans in to press his lips softly to it. Sherlock stiffens a bit, but sighs as John lingers for a few moments before pulling back.

Sherlock is, perhaps, more beautiful than John’s ever seen him. Soft and pink from sleep, hair tousled and lips slightly swollen and cracked. He looks apprehensive, scared even, and a bit sad. His shoulders are hunched and he’s tucked his large hands tucked under his chin. But he didn’t leave the bed. One foot is still shoved between John’s calves.

John smiles in spite of himself. How didn’t he see this, over so many years? How long had he needlessly suffered? How long has Sherlock suffered?

“Let me use the loo,” John leans in again and whispers directly against Sherlock’s mouth. “I think it’s finally time we forced ourselves to talk about this.”

Sherlock merely nods as John pushes himself away and into the bathroom.

*

Bladder sufficiently emptied and teeth brushed, John surveys himself in the mirror. He looks much less worse for wear than Sherlock; his lips are a bit more swollen than usual, but he has no cuts or bruises. John feels a pang; Sherlock never actually hit him back.

He gives himself a once over with a warm flannel, then heads into the kitchen. John grabs two ice cubes from the freezer (next to some toes, for fuck’s sake) and wraps them in a paper towel. He heads back into the bedroom and immediately slides back under the soft sheets and duvet. Sherlock is sitting propped up against the headboard. He doesn’t look at John straight away.

“Come here, you,” he takes Sherlock’s chin and guides his face around, then presses the ice cubes against the welt on his cheek. Sherlock hisses. “Let me hold this here, for a bit. I really got you there.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down and to the side, and he stares at an invisible spot on the duvet while John holds the ice cube against his cheek. They’re close, very close, and John can feel the heat radiating from Sherlock’s body. He can also feel the fear.

“I’m just going to say it,” John says after several long moments of holding ice against Sherlock’s face. “I should have said it years ago. I should have said it when you jumped, I should have said it when you came to after surgery, fuck, I should have said it on the tarmac a few months ago. But, you’re you and I’m me so of course I didn’t.

“You are,” John takes a deep breath, swallows hard. “You…you are the most important person in my life. You always have been, from the first day. And I need to say that. I need to say that you always will be, no matter what happens with this, even if I leave your bed this morning and never come back…which, do you want me to?”

Sherlock’s eyes haven’t moved from the spot on his duvet where they settled a few minutes ago. He shakes his head minutely.

“Good,” John pulls the ice cubes away from Sherlock’s cheek, then puts a hand on his bony knee. “Because…well, I think, last night was a long time coming, for me at least…” John trails off, squeezing Sherlock’s knee. He’s not good at this. He’s told Sherlock before, things like this are very difficult. But if someone’s going to do it, it’ll have to be John. He can’t put this on Sherlock’s shoulders; the poor man can barely handle the emotion involved in finding that Mrs. Hudson has cleared out the fridge. John knows Sherlock enough to know he’s going to have to take the plunge himself, then pull it out of his emotionally-reticent best friend. Lover? Whatever they’re going to be now.

“I—I didn’t know it was an option,” Sherlock goes to lay his hand on top of John’s on his knee, then hesitates and pulls back. John’s skin sparks where Sherlock’s fingertips brush his hand.

“I didn’t either…at least not with you. We’re a couple of idiots, aren’t we?”

Sherlock frowns, the line appearing in the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how I was supposed to know. You never said anything, and you…”

“I’m not saying I expected you to know, not this…and honestly, I didn’t see it either. Or didn’t want to see it, I don’t know…but that doesn’t detract from us being idiots.” John rubs Sherlock’s knee again, and thinks hard. “I’m really not good at this…shit, Sherlock, I—”

“I love you, you know.” Sherlock suddenly blurts and looks John square in the face. “At least, I think I do. I’m not really sure what love feels like, so I don’t know for sure...”

“Well, I know, or at least I thought I did…but, nothing I’ve ever thought was love was like this, so I probably have no idea what I’m doing either.

“You got married. You kept saying you weren’t gay.”

“I’m not…I’ve done things with men, a lot of things, but I guess I never really thought I’d be satisfied with a male romance…interestingly enough, I was never satisfied with any of the women I was with. Even Mary. They were always missing something. Mainly, you.”

“Your relationships were missing me?” Sherlock looks at him in that way he does, that way that clearly says, _I don’t understand, John. I’m trusting you to explain it to me_. John’s heart clenches a little.

“Well, yes, I suppose. I mean, I was so comfortable with you, from that first day. You drove me crazy but when you weren’t around to do that I started to feel as if I was going crazy.   When you…after you, well…let’s just say I just barely made it through those two years. Sometimes I’m surprised, myself, that I did. Make it through, I mean.”

“I don’t like that, John.”

“It’s true. I didn’t tell you, even after I saw the scars and you told me what happened to you. I guess…I was still angry, Sherlock. Angry that I went through that, knowing that if you had just said something, I would have gone with you.”

“You would have died, John. I told you that.”

“Yes, you did. And I guess that’s why I’m such an idiot, that I couldn’t see what that meant. To you.   I would have much rather gone with you and died out there with you. And I always thought you’d just dismissed my feelings on that…you couldn’t see it or understand it or you didn’t care. But that’s not what it was, was it? You couldn’t bear the thought of that happening.”

“No. You were safe here. But I had no idea it’d affect you so—”

“And that’s why we’re both idiots,” John chuckles sardonically. “So, that’s why I should have said it. All those times I should have said it. Because maybe then you would have stayed.”

“No, I wouldn’t have, John.”

“I know,” John reaches up, gently brushes the fringe from Sherlock’s eyes. “And that’s why you’re an idiot, as well. We are so fucked up.

“But,” John gets up on his knees, and turns to face Sherlock head on. John can look down on him like this, Sherlock sitting on the bed, John kneeling beside him. “I’m going to tell you now, for all the times I didn’t.” He takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Because from now on, you will have to fight me away, tie me to a chair, to keep me from following you anywhere. Everywhere. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, in every way it’s possible to love someone. You drive me insane, you make me so angry, and there is NOTHING I’d trade for that. You’re brilliant and unique, and you’re the most rare, exquisite creature in the universe, and you don’t know how much it touches me that you’ve chosen me, in whatever capacity you have.”

“John…”

“I’m here. Forever, for good. Even if you wake up tomorrow and decide the romance isn’t for you, that you don’t want me in your bed, I’m here. Even if it’s just to sit in my chair and listen to you rant. To chase you around and make sure you eat and sleep and stitch you up and yell at you for body parts in the fridge. And I have to tell you that before something else happens. I don’t know how many miracles you have left in you, and I can’t bear the thought that something happens to either of us—”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, John.”

“I know that,” John moves his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and squeezes. He’s done that before, a lot actually. It was never platonic, even if he swore up and down to anyone who would listen that it was. “And this won’t be easy. And we still have so much shit to straighten out, with us and Moriarty and just everything. I’m still very, very angry at a lot of things, including you.” Sherlock’s eyes darken a bit and John clarifies. “And myself. But I’m so relieved, even if last night was a mess.”

“I’m sorry, John…I’ve—I’ve never…”

“I know, you arse. And that’s not what I meant,” John leans in close. “That part of last night was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

“Oh.”

“So, now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way, I’d really like to kiss you again.” John moves closer, brushes his nose against Sherlock’s. “Can I? Did you like it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs, his eyes closing. “I did. I’ve never kissed anyone like that, never wanted to.” His eyes suddenly open. “Do you really want to do this again, John? I mean, I was happy being best friends, I will be, if that’s what you want…”

“Sherlock,” John takes Sherlock’s face in his hands again. “I spent two years telling myself I was happy just being your friend. Then you went away and I hated myself, and all I wanted to do was go join you, wherever you were. I think somehow I knew not to, even if I didn’t believe it then. And then you were back and I made an even bigger mess of things. I will always, always be your best friend. I mean that. But if we can also do this, then this is what I want.   And if you decide it’s not, then yes, I will be happy being your best friend. But this, Sherlock…this could be wonderful. It _would_ be wonderful, if we let it.” John purses his lips a bit, runs his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. He’s dreamed of doing this for a long time. “When I work up this morning, and you were there, God, Sherlock, it was perfect.”

“I watched you, when I woke up,” Sherlock says simply. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip and John’s stomach flip-flops. “It scared me, how much I liked it. Last night scared me. I don’t want to go back…”

“Then just trust me. And let me kiss you again.”

“Alright.”

John smiles softly, and rubs his nose gently against Sherlock’s again. “Come here,” he murmurs, then tilts his head and draws Sherlock’s face to his. The kiss is gentle, chaste, nothing like the raw, violent biting of last night. There’s more intent than the sweet, soft kiss from when John first woke up, and when Sherlock sighs out his nose John opens his mouth and runs his tongue softly along Sherlock’s bottom lip. He nibbles, just a bit, and Sherlock’s lips part and John’s tongue darts, almost out of his control, into Sherlock’s mouth. He’s warm and wet and soft and John shuffles closer on his knees.

John’s tongue finds Sherlock’s and Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose, large hands settling on John’s bare back. John feels his fingers dancing up to circle around the messy scar on his back.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John pulls back, whispers into his mouth. “This. I want this.”

“John,” Sherlock leans in this time, capturing John’s lips in a kiss that’s harder, more desperate, and John feels a pulse in his groin. It’s everything he’s ever imagined it would be, more, as arousal floods his veins. And love. Deep, searing love. John has never felt a wave of emotion like he does now, as their tongues slide together; he wants to claim and mark and nurture and protect. Sherlock is his, he said it himself. And he loves John, fuck, this precious, gorgeous, _perfect_ man has decided that John is the person he wants to love. It’s overwhelming.

This kiss is overwhelming. John finds his higher brain functions are struggling to keep up as the kiss dissolves into biting and licking and panting open mouths. Sherlock’s hands are sliding and rubbing up and down his back, dancing closer to the waistband of his pajama pants.

John pulls back, sucks hard on Sherlock’s full lower lip. “Go ahead,” he murmurs, mouthing across his cheek, delighting in the tickle of his morning stubble. “Touch me however you want.”

Sherlock’s fingertips dip beneath the elastic, but stop short of his pants. “John, I’m not sure how…”

“It’s alright,” John licks the shell of his ear, then exhales. Sherlock shivers. “I’ll show you. I’ll show you everything. Would you like that?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” John sucks wetly on Sherlock’s earlobe. “I want to touch every part of you, taste every part of you. Mark you and suck bruises into this perfect, white skin.” He swirls his tongue against Sherlock’s neck, then sucks hard for a moment.

“Oh.”

John pulls off his skin with a wet *pop*. “Tastes better than last night.” He drags his tongue up Sherlock’s chin and licks his open mouth. “What do you want me to do to you, sweet boy?”

“Everything.”

“Mmmm…more specific, love?”

“No, I—I don’t know, just…” Sherlock’s breathing hitches as John pulls his other earlobe between his lips. “Just, everything. Please. Everything.”

“Alright,” John moves to look Sherlock directly in the eye. “Everything.” He plants a wet kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “I think I want to fully undress you this time.”

“Ok,” Sherlock exhales hard. His hair is wild already, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. His eyes are nearly black. He’s stunning.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” John drags his hands down Sherlock’s front, rubbing his chest through the soft material of his t-shirt. How many times has John seen Sherlock stomping around the flat in this shirt, wanting to pull it off and run his tongue over every inch of skin beneath it? “I’ve always thought so. That first night, when we came back here, I laid awake in my bed upstairs,” he pushes gently on Sherlock’s shoulders, guides him down so he’s on his back on the mattress and lifts up to straddle his hips. “I thought about fucking you, holding you down, the noises you would make.” John settles down on Sherlock’s pelvis, hisses as the hardness in his pajamas comes to rest against Sherlock’s. Sherlock moans. “Like that noise. Fuck, it’s delicious.”

John leans down for a messy, wet kiss, swallowing Sherlock’s groans as he slips his hands under his shirt. He reaches up to pinch both nipples, eliciting a muffled gasp and a jerk of Sherlock’s hips up off the mattress. “Let’s get this off you.” John grabs the hem of the shirt and yanks it up so his rucked up above his sternum. His white chest is mottled the same pink as his cheeks. John runs his hands down the white skin of his arms, down over his chest. The sparse, ginger hairs between his pectorals tickle his fingertips delightfully. “You’re like something from another world.”

“John,” Sherlock stares up at him, eyes dark and hooded. John merely smirks, and lowers his mouth to one pink nipple. He ghosts his open mouth over the nub of flesh, then lowers it and sucks hard. It feels different in his mouth than it did last night; the heat in his core is like a swell of hot, molten gold, rather than the white burst of flame like last night. John’s arousal is thick and heavy, and flows over him as Sherlock gasps when he rolls his nipple between his teeth.

“Mmmm,” John chuckles, and swipes his tongue over Sherlock’s pectoral. The muscle twitches as Sherlock tenses. “Who…knew….” He kisses over to Sherlock’s other nipple and sucks hard. “…you’d make such lovely sounds.”

“John…”

“And taste so sweet,” John drags his tongue down Sherlock’s abdomen, pausing only briefly at the square of gauze taped to his chest. He presses his palm against it gently and dips his tongue into Sherlock’s navel. He sneaks a peak up at Sherlock’s face; his cheeks are burning bright red and his eyes are screwed shut. “Do you not like sweet talk?”

“No, John…I—I just never…”

“Good. Because I like it. And I like your cheeks when they’re bright red,” John reaches the elastic of Sherlock’s waistband and runs his tongue under it, the soft trail of dark hair leading down from Sherlock’s belly button tickling his lips. “Now. What’s under here?”

“Jesus, John,” Sherlock moans as John’s hand runs along the length of his erection, hot and throbbing through the thin cotton of his pajama pants.

“Mmmmhmmmhmm…” John chuckles and mouths through the material, eliciting a gasp and jerk from Sherlock as he bites—lightly—at the hard flesh. “You know,” John pulls the material down and bit and presses his nose into the dark black hair that appears. It’s curly and springy, not quite as soft as the hair on Sherlock’s head, and it smells like fancy organic soap and sweat and pure _Sherlock_ , intensified exponentially. “I have never, in my life,” John kisses the soft skin just next to the patch of hair, “had someone who looks or tastes or feels as good as you. You’re so stunning, so sexy.” John pulls the cotton down all the way and kneels up and back so he can peel the off Sherlock’s legs. His eyes stay on Sherlock’s cock as he tosses the pajama bottoms off the bed. It’s different in the morning light; still delicious, but more so. Lean and flushed pink, it throbs and twitches as it snaps back against Sherlock’s taught belly when it’s pulled free from his pants. John’s mouth waters when he sees a smear of shiny fluid where the head touches the skin of Sherlock’s stomach.

“Fuck,” John breathers, almost overwhelmed. “I’ve never seen _anything_ so beautiful. I could eat you alive, right now.” And it’s true. Sherlock is mottled red and breathing hard, one arm thrown over his eyes. His hair is a mess, damp with sweat, the red of his blush running up his neck and into his ears. He is sprawled beneath John, left leg bent and splayed while his right ankle of hooked over John’s shoulder. His stomach heaves, and the image of him like this, debauched and boneless, cock hard and wet with his t-shirt yanked up around his chest…fuck, John’s balls clench in his pants and he’s not even being touched.

“I want to taste every part of you,” John presses his teeth to the inside of Sherlock’s knee and reaches forward between Sherlock’s thighs. “Every,” his middle finger presses gently into the tight ring of muscle between Sherlock’s buttocks and he gasps, “single” John’s thumb circles against his perineum “part of you.” He runs his palm over the soft skin of Sherlock’s scrotum then finally reaches up to grip his hot shaft.

“Oh, god, John. Yes. Yes, please!” Sherlock arches when John strokes hard, his foreskin slipping over the wet glans and back again. John abandons the skin inside Sherlock’s knee and mouths up his thigh, nipping at the clean, musky skin then laving his tongue over his balls. They taste the way the rest of Sherlock does: salty, clean sweat and a hint of soap, but intensified a hundred-fold. John’s head swims and he pulls one testicle into his mouth and sucks hard. Sherlock keens.

“You taste delicious,” John moves down, pulling the soft skin of Sherlock’s perineum between his teeth. Sherlock writhes and twists, his knees pressing into Sherlock’s shoulders, crying out in a mix of pain and pleasure. The idea of a purple bruise sucked into this secret place thrills John like nothing ever has. He releases Sherlock’s cock and presses both hands against the muscles of his belly, feeling them clench and quiver, then looks up to catch Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock is looking down at him, sweating and wrecked, his eyes wide and mouth in a delicate little “oh.” John winks devilishly, then without another word lowers his mouth and swallows Sherlock’s hot cock down in one go.

“Oh, FUCK! JOHN!” Sherlock’s fingers clench in John’s hair as his nose presses into his pubic hair, his soft palate quivering as he fights his gag reflex. John’s never felt strongly one way or another about performing fellatio; he had been willing to do it, especially in Afghanistan, mostly for the reciprocation. It never disgusted him but never thrilled him either; doing this with Sherlock, feeling his throat stretch and convulse around his leaking glans, feeling his pulse with his tongue as he presses it against the corpus spongiosum—Sherlock would delight in knowing his mind thinks in medical terms, even during sex, John is sure of it—is the most arousing, fascinating thing he’s done. It’s better today than it was last night; there’s no lingering dirty water to muddy Sherlock’s taste or the fearful trepidation that comes with encounters like what they had last night. John pulls up and bobs down again, once, then pulls back up again and runs his tongue around Sherlock’s corona and presses it into the slit. Salty, slightly bitter fluid seeps out in response and John’s cock pulses in turn. His head is buzzing as he sucks hard, Sherlock’s stomach twitching between his fingers, whimpers and moans escaping his throat.

John looks up as he bobs down again. Sherlock’s head is thrown back, and the red mottle on his chest is seeping lower to his stomach. John removes one hand from him belly and reaches down to tug gently on his balls, then moves lower still. His thumb presses gently against Sherlock’s anus and it twitches. His cock pulses fluid out again on John’s tongue.

“I could,” John pulls off Sherlock’s penis with a wet slurp, but keeps his lips pressed lightly against his glans. He rubs his thumb in lazy circles against Sherlock’s hole. “I could bring you off this way.” Sherlock looks up and more fluid seeps out against John’s lips as he speaks. “And I will, eventually. Or, like this,” he presses his thumb, just a bit, past the tight ring of muscle and Sherlock jerks. “I could fuck this pretty, tight arsehole of yours. And I will. I promise I will.” Sherlock’s face burns brighter, if possible, and John responds with an open mouthed kiss to the head of his cock. “But I think this morning, sweet boy—” a quick swipe of his tongue—“I want this gorgeous cock in my arse.”

“J—John?” Sherlock stutters. John kisses his glans one last time then starts dragging his tongue back up Sherlock’s abdomen, pressing wet kisses and little nibbles into the soft flesh. Sherlock is all angles and lines, long and lean and bony, but he’s delightfully soft to the touch. John is overwhelmed as he moves up Sherlock’s body, feeling him shake and shudder beneath him.

“You heard me,” John licks Sherlock’s neck, presses his lips to the pulse point he stroked earlier. It flutters incessantly against his mouth.

“I don’t know…I’ve—I’ve never…” John licks into Sherlock’s stuttering mouth, silencing him with a deep, passionate kiss. He pours his heart into it, and Sherlock’s large hands settle on his sides, gripping as if for dear life.

“I know, genius.” John peppers kisses over Sherlock’s face, finishing at the crinkle in the bridge of his nose. He’s wanted to kiss this forever, rub his mouth over it and ease Sherlock’s confusion for as long as he’s known him. “I know you’ve ‘never.’ And that’s why we’re going to do it this way; because I have. And I want this to be so good for you, and this way I know one-hundred percent it will be.”

“But you…what about you?”

“It’ll be good for me…how could it not be?” John breathes into Sherlock’s open mouth, then nips his lower lip. He reaches back behind himself and grabs onto Sherlock’s cock, stroking once. “How could I not want a prick this gorgeous in my arse?”

“Oh, God, JOHN.” Sherlock lifts his head for another kiss and John obliges, their tongues snaking together and Sherlock’s arms and legs come up to wrap completely around John’s body, trapping him against him. “I want,” Sherlock speaks as best he can without fully pulling his mouth away from John’s. “I want to taste you, first. Can I? Please?”

John wetly pulls out of the kiss and looks down at Sherlock’s face. He’s still flushed and glowing with a thin layer of sweat, and his pulse is visibly beating in his neck. John presses his thumb against it again and huffs out a laugh. “No one’s ever begged to suck my cock before.”

“I’m begging,” Sherlock breathes. The carnality of the statement, combined with Sherlock’s absolute guilelessness—he’s so open, so obviously out of his league and experience but still aching to touch and be touched, by JOHN—makes John’s cock twitch again, where it’s trapped between their bodies. It’s been woefully neglected during the escapade thus far.

“Fuck, Sherlock. Of course you can. Anytime you want,” John kisses him sweetly, then awkwardly disentangles himself from Sherlock’s death grip to remove his pajamas and pants. “Just let me…” John sheds his clothes, yanking them off, then tossing them who-knows-where before turning back to Sherlock, still sprawled on the bed. “Here,” he grabs Sherlock’s t-shirt and somehow manages to get it up and over Sherlock’s head and limp arms, tossing it to wherever he threw his pajamas.

“Oh my God, John,” Sherlock’s eyes widen as they land on John’s rather ample erection. “You’re…I had no idea…”

John laughs, deep in his gut, as he climbs back over Sherlock, straddling his stomach. It causes his cock to shake and jump, Sherlock’s eyes following it. “Weren’t expecting that, eh?”

“Statistically, most men have penises comparable to their stature, John, you’re—”

“Yeah, I’m short, genius, so?” John teases, shuffling up Sherlock’s body on his knees, so the tip of his cock just stops short of bumping against Sherlock’s chin.

“Nothing, John…I just wasn’t expecting you to be so large…”

“Problem?”

“Nooooo,” Sherlock breathes, eyeing the head. “Fascinated. You’re fascinating, John, in every way. So unassuming, but so unexpected, so interesting…” Sherlock looks up directly into John’s face. “It’s part why I love you so much. I see the real you, the one you don’t let others see.”

John’s throat tightens at the heartfelt, simple words. Sherlock says them so easily, now, so matter-of-fact, as if everyone should just know that how he feels about John is objective fact. John blinks against wetness in his eyes and moves his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck. “I love you, too, beautiful boy. So much.”

Sherlock brings his hands up to rest on John’s thighs, wide eyes still staring up into John’s face. “Can I, John?”

“Fuck, yes,” John squeezes the back of Sherlock’s neck, and it’s deliciously appropriate. He’s always squeezed Sherlock’s neck, a seemingly-platonic gesture that allowed touch but still maintained enough distance to insist they were only best friends. Now, it’s hardly that, but it makes the change of state so seamless that John curses himself, again, that they weren’t doing this all long. “Come here. I want to see those gorgeous lips around my cock.”

John watches as he pulls Sherlock’s head up and leans his hips forward slightly, but has to screw his eyes shut as the head of his cock is met with the warm wetness of Sherlock’s open mouth. It’s _glorious_. Sherlock really has absolutely no idea what he’s doing, but he’s so enthusiastic, so hot and slick that John briefly fears he’s going to come then and there. He inhales hard through his teeth and forces the excitement down, and the moment passes enough to allow himself to revel in the soft suction of Sherlock’s mouth. “Oh, fuck, love. That’s wonderful, that’s perfect. My perfect man…”

Sherlock moans, the vibrations rumbling down John’s cock and deep into his balls and gut. It’s perfect, it’s glorious, and John makes the mistake of opening his eyes to look down just as Sherlock decides he wants to take John deeper. The image of Sherlock’s full lips wrapped tightly around his cock, watching as he gags and sputters as he goes too far on his first try almost pushes John over the edge, instantly.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock..stop—STOP!” John grips the back of his hair, pulling Sherlock off his cock. Sherlock looks up questioningly, the juxtaposition of his wide, questioning eyes beneath John’s spit-slick cock achingly beautiful. “Too good, love,” John moves his hand to reassuringly stroke Sherlock’s face. “You’re too good. I don’t want to come like this, not now. Later. But now I want to come with you inside me.”

Sherlock nods, a jerk of his head, eyes still wide. His thumbs are stroking circles on John’s thighs as John’s thumb rubs against his right cheekbone. “Alright, John.”

“Do you—do you have lube down here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nods. “In the drawer. I use it sometimes. I think about you.” The simple words are downright pornographic when spoken in his impossibly deep voice. John has never, never been so aroused, has desired someone as much as he wants to be joined with Sherlock right now. As fast as possible.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John leans over to the bedside table, his cock bumping into Sherlock’s chin with the movement. He jerks as Sherlock takes the opportunity to mouth at the tip again. “Uh uh,” he pulls Sherlock back by the hair, gently, when he’s retrieved the small tube that’s obviously been pilfered from a medical office. “I wish I’d known. We’ve wasted so much time.”

“It’s alright, now.”

“I know, my darling. I know,” John shuffles back a bit and leans down to kiss Sherlock again, sweet and wet, tongue dipping quickly into the heat of his mouth. His lips are puffy and red from John’s kisses and from being wrapped around his cock and John soothes his top lip gently with his mouth, sucking very, very gently.

“Give me your hand, love,” John whispers against Sherlock’s mouth and lifts his right hand off his thigh. He squirts a generous amount of lube onto his long fingers. He can feel his cock, hard and leaking, against the cleft of his arse. “Here,” John lifts up on his knees and guides Sherlock’s hand between his thighs. He shudders as his forearm brushes against his balls. “Your fingers…”

The tip of Sherlock’s middle finger finds John’s arse and circles around the pucker gently. “There?” He breathes. “Like that?”

“Yes, sweetheart, now…oh fuck,” Sherlock’s finger presses inside John’s arse, slipping easily past the tight ring of muscle to the first knuckle. “That’s it. Just like that.”

Sherlock sighs and smiles slightly, crooking the tip of his finger just slightly as John’s sphincter flutters at the intrusion.

“You can go deeper, love…oh, shit.” John doubles over as Sherlock pushes his finger farther, the tip brushing over John’s prostate. “Curl your finger a bit, keep pressing there…oh, yesssss….” John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s collarbone. His cock jumps and leaks out a bit of fluid as Sherlock presses again, circling the swollen nub of tissue.

“John—”

“Fuck, Sherlock…add a second, oh Jesus,” John lifts his head and arches his back, rocking his cock against Sherlock’s taught abdomen and pushing his arse back onto the two fingers now probing into him. It’s been a long time and it burns as Sherlock twists and scissors his fingers, but he’s also brushing John’s prostate on every pass and it feels fucking wonderful. “Oh, God…your fingers are so long...so perfect…” John jerks as Sherlock presses particularly hard into his prostate. “You sure you’ve never done this before?” John laughs shakily, grinding his arse back against Sherlock’s hand.

“No! I swear, you’re—”

“I know, love…I know. You’re just—fuck—you’re perfect. I’ve never—Jesus!” Sherlock adds a second finger to John’s arse, pushing past the tight ring and stretching him almost painfully. John collapses against Sherlock’s chest, entire body quivering like a livewire. John’s been with many people, men and (mostly) women, has penetrated and been penetrated, and never has he felt like he was going to snap like he doesn’t now as Sherlock fingers his arse, exploring, learning. If it’s like this at his most inexperienced…God, he may kill John in the end. “Enough, love,” John reaches between them and grabs Sherlock’s wrist. “That’s enough. I need you inside me before I explode right now.”

“Oh, please, John,” Sherlock arches, his cock rubbing against John’s buttocks as John pushes himself up off his body. Sherlock’s fingers slip from his arsehole and it aches, just a bit, but it’s a delicious ache and John relishes the pain because of what it means: that a part of Sherlock’s body was inside his body.

John grabs the tube of lube and squeezes some into his own hand, then reaches back to slick Sherlock’s cock.

“J-John!” Sherlock chokes and jerks.

“Shhhh,” John lifts himself up on his knees, and shifts back a bit more. “Put your hands on my hips, yes, like that.” The hand not holding onto Sherlock’s penis reaches out to stroke his face. “I’ve waited so long for this, darling…”

“Me too, John…me too…from that first day….”

“You had me text a murderer…” John sinks back, the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock pressing against his slick and loosened opening.

“You shot the cabbie…for me, nobody had ever…before…not, not for—oh!” Sherlock’s eyes widen and his mouth falls open as the tip of him slips inside John.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans at the breach, the burn. “We got dim sum. You stole mine.”

“I deduced the fortune cookies…” Sherlock’s breathe hisses through his teeth as John sinks down, further, slowly.

“You guessed,” John chuckles shakily as his arse comes to settle on Sherlock’s pelvis. He’s buried to the root, and John wills himself to relax as his sphincter flutters and pushes against the intrusion. He presses one hand over Sherlock’s heart, the other gripping one of his hands where it rests on his hip. Both their fingers are still slick with lube. John opens his eyes to stare directly into Sherlock’s. “You guessed, and most of the time you were wrong. Fuck, Sherlock,” he exhales hard. “I’ve loved you since then. I should have just given up then. You had me, completely, from that first night.”

“John,” Sherlock’s back arches off the mattress as John starts to rock, slowly, angling so Sherlock’s penis butts directly up against his prostate. “Nobody ever, you made me feel—oh, God, John! You were—you were my first friend—I—”

“I’m your friend, Sherlock,” John squeezes his fingers and rocks a bit faster, grinding his arse down. John’s cock is bouncing and rubbing against Sherlock’s abdomen, leaving a trail of sticky fluid on his skin. “I’ll always be your friend, always…” John moans as his prostate sparks. He thinks he can actually feel Sherlock’s cock swelling inside him. It won’t be long for either of them.

“I’ve been yours, since then…oh, God, John…” Sherlock’s eyes roll back and he squeezes John’s hips, hard. “I’ve never wanted…not before you, you made me. I belong to you…you saved—you saved—”

“I know, oh, fuck, Sherlock, I know!” John leans forward and captures his mouth briefly, swiping his tongue against Sherlock’s in a messy, not-quite kiss. He continues to rock, faster, grinding down against Sherlock’s hips and moves his hand from his hip and places it on his cock. “Please, Sherlock…I need, I won’t last long…”

Sherlock’s long fingers curls around John’s aching flesh and stroke, rubbing his foreskin up over the wet head and dragging the fluid down to mingle with the lube still coating his hand. Neither speaks as John picks up the pace, Sherlock’s pelvis starting to lift off the mattress and press back. He can feel it in his gut, deeper than the orgasm from last night. It’s building hard and fast, every press of Sherlock’s penis on his prostate eliciting sparks behind his eyes until he gives up and closes them, panting hard into Sherlock’s open mouth.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, “I’m so close…please, please!”

“I know, sweet---oh, fuck!” John feels the ripples start, deep in his gut, spreading out and down his thighs to his calves and into his toes, then shooting straight back up into his testicles. Sherlock feels like he’s swelling inside him, hotter and harder than rock, his fingers tightening around his cock and then the head of his penis jabs directly into John’s prostate. “OH!”

His breath huffs out in a growl, practically a growl, as the pulses start, his arse tightening around Sherlock’s cock as the first jet of come fills the space between them, then a second, and third. Sherlock inhales hard and lifts his hips off the bed then stiffens, the squeezing of John around him sending him over the edge.

The orgasm is not quite as jarring as the one last night; still powerful, more so, but it starts and drags in long, rolling waves as John spurts two more times against Sherlock’s stomach, rocking through it. He can feel Sherlock’s come fill him in a burst of warm wetness, then another and another, until it overflows and slicks out of him, the wetness of it on Sherlock’s testicles as John’s buttocks press down as he rocks.

John slumps down with a groan, sprawled over Sherlock’s body as the final twitches of his orgasm leave him. He grabs Sherlock’s hand off his cock, now painfully oversensitive as it dribbles out a last bit of semen, and places it back on his hip. Sherlock’s long fingers are wet and sticky where they grip his flesh. His hips are still pushing lightly up into John, rocking out the last bit of climax, then his body goes limp and he sighs, shoulders and thighs still twitching slightly.

John feels wrung out as he gets his hands around Sherlock’s back. His heart is pounding against John’s cheek as he gulps for air, the sound of it whistling in his lungs against John’s ear. They lay like that for a few moments, neither able to speak or move. Even breathing seems to be a chore.

After a bit, John feels Sherlock’s mouth against his hair, mouthing and biting instinctively but without aim. Before he can help it, John laughs. It’s a deep laugh, from his core, and it shakes his body and shoulders and jostles Sherlock’s softening penis, which is still buried in his arse. John buries his face in Sherlock’s neck and laughs and laughs, unable to stop, and doesn’t lift his head until Sherlock presses his palms against his shoulders—one hand still sticky with come—in question.

“John?” His voice is breathy and high and absolutely delightful. John pushes himself up on his left elbow and looks down at the beautiful image below him.

Sherlock is stunning, glowing, with red cheeks and wet eyes, his hair mussed and damp. John twists his fingers into his curls. “Nothing, my love. I’m just happy.”

“That was amazing.”

“Yes, beautiful,” John presses a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose. “It was. You’re amazing.”

“That’s not what most people say.” Sherlock’s lips quirk just a bit, but his eyes are still languid, the rest of his face slack with pleasure and flooding endorphins.

“They’re idiots. They’re all idiots,” John leans down, and kisses Sherlock’s swollen mouth sweetly. He rolls to the side, and winces internally as Sherlock slips out of his body. He’s already starting to ache, but it’s a wonderful ache, and John knows it will serve as a deep reminder of this for several days. “Every single one of them is an idiot.”

John pulls his arms out from under Sherlock’s back so he can settle on his side, then opens them again. Sherlock moves forward instantly, burrowing against John’s chest. Both their fronts are sticky and will grow cold and tacky after a while, but Sherlock’s body is warm and his breath is hot against John’s skin. He shifts just a bit so he can reach down and tug the duvet up and over their legs.

John runs his fingers up and down Sherlock’s back, tracing one raised scar that goes from his thoracic vertebrae up over his left shoulder blade. Sherlock sighs and snuffles into John’s chest. The streaks of sunlight against the bedroom wall have shifted, and are brighter. The bed is warm, the air in the room calm, for the first time in five years.

In a word, it’s perfect. The floodgates opened, the current crested and crashed, and now they’re going to settle into everything they’ve meant to be since day one, when John killed a man and Sherlock stole a dumpling off John’s plate.

“I love you, Sherlock. Always.”

“Me too, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't talk about Chinese food during sex? I mean, really.


End file.
